Off Minor

Thirty-six

The department office was in a long, low building, dingy and scuffed walls and a sloping corrugated roof; as a center for learning it had the presence and authority of a converted cow shed. But perhaps if you were teaching American and Canadian Studies you liked it that way. A sense of the vast outdoors, the pioneering spirit. The secretary treated Resnick to a smile that would have seemed at home in the expanses of Saskatchewan or Manitoba and directed him outside again, along to a lecture room at the end of the block. Inside the room, Vivien Nathanson wasn’t lecturing, at least not in any way that Resnick recognized; she was sitting in one corner with seven or so students, chairs pulled clear of the tables and formed into a circle. Waiting for the Indians, Resnick smiled, slipping into a seat near the door.

“If you need a central text,” Vivien was saying, “you could do worse than the McAdam we were looking at earlier.

When we met, I thought knowledge had limits, that in love we were finite beasts who shared known boundaries

but watching you touch objects for which I have no desire I see a measure of longing in your eyes

that forces me to say, I don’t know you yet. That forces me to say, there are places in you I may not wish to know

Anybody remember how that goes on?”

After some shuffling of papers and sudden interest in footwear, a girl with corn-blond hair ventured: “Is it the bit about infinity?”

Vivien smiled encouragingly.

“Beasts of infinity?”

“That’s right.

In love we are beasts of infinity, crude in our longing for things that may carry us apart.

“What’s interesting, one of the things that’s interesting, is the way desire and sexuality are discussed in terms of distance, place, boundaries. That’s the focus I think you should take for your essays. All right?”

A quick smile and a closing of the book to show that it was over.

“Aren’t you going to give us an actual title?” asked one of the young men, the savagery of his haircut at odds with the soft correctness of his accent.

“Oh, very well.” Standing, Vivien’s eyes flicked towards Resnick at the far end of the room, the first acknowledgement that he was there. “How about ‘Desire and Place: the Erotics of Distance in Canadian Poetry’? Is that posey enough for you?”

Two or three students laughed; the youth who’d asked the question blushed and shuffled his feet.

“Do we have to restrict ourselves to the poets we’ve talked about?” The girl with corn-silk hair was walking with Vivien towards the door.

“No, not at all. But Rhona McAdam, Susan Musgrave, you might start there. After that,” she smiled, “the possibilities are infinite.”

With scarcely a glance at Resnick, the students filed from the room.

“I was waiting for a dramatic intervention,” Vivien said, the smile still not faded from her face. “A quick three minutes on personal safety and care of belongings, at least.”

Resnick nodded in the direction of the door. “God knows what they thought I was doing here. Someone from the board of works, come to size the place up for a paint job. Not that they seemed that interested anyway.”

“Ah, being cool. It doesn’t do to demonstrate a great deal of interest in anything. Least of all work or strange men. But if your ego’s bruised, they probably thought you were my lover. I’m sure they think I have one somewhere.” She chuckled, low in her throat. “At least, I certainly hope so.”

So, Resnick thought, come on, what’s the answer, do you or not? And, as if she knew what he was thinking, the light of mischief moved across her eyes.

“That poem you were reading,” Resnick asked. “It was a poem?”

“Yes.”

“Does it have a title?”

“‘Infinite Beasts.’ Here, take this. Borrow it.”

Resnick looked from her face to the book in his hand. “It’s all right.”

“No, do. I’ve finished using it for now. You can return it later.”

The cover of the book was pale pink, overprinted in black and gray; he wondered if her lenses were tinted blue or if that were the natural color of her eyes. “The man you saw out running …”

“You’ve found him.”

“We think so. We’d like you to come and identify him, if you can.”

“You mean one of those parades, where you can see them but they can’t see you?”

“Not quite so hi-tech,” Resnick said. “No one-way mirror, just a room big enough for everyone to stand in and stare at one another.”

“That sounds more intimidating,” said Vivien.

“It is. But you’ll manage.” Without really needing to, he looked at his watch. “If we make a move now, everything should be more or less set up.”

“Then let’s go.”

Passing the secretary’s office, she said, “If we go in your car, does that mean you get to drive me back?”

“Not necessarily. But it does mean somebody will.”

However she viewed that prospect, Vivien Nathanson kept it to herself.

Stephen Sheppard arrived at the station wearing a patched tweed jacket and brown cords. Patel did his best to put him at his ease while they were waiting for Resnick to return, but Sheppard was not going to be calmed down with politeness and inquiries about the outside temperature.

When Resnick entered the room where they were waiting, Shepperd opened his mouth to say something, reconsidered, and bit the inside of his lower lip instead.

“You know you have the right to have somebody else present?” Resnick said.

Sheppard shook his head.

“You understand it’s within your rights to refuse to take part in this parade, but that if you make that choice, we may arrange to have you confronted by a witness?”

Sheppard nodded.

“Also, that should you exercise your right not to participate, that fact may be offered in evidence in any subsequent trial?”

“What trial?”

“We don’t know yet, Mr. Sheppard. Any trial that might ensue.”

Sheppard pressed one hand to the side of his face and teased with his teeth the place where he had bitten his lip. Resnick nodded at Patel, who handed Sheppard a copy of the form outlining the procedure in detail.

“When you’ve read that through, Mr. Sheppard, sign it at the bottom and indicate where it says that you’re waiving your right to have anyone else present.”

Sheppard read the form with difficulty, the hand holding it less than steady, his signature little more than a scrawl.

Outside the door to the room where the parade was going to take place, Resnick made him pause. “There are eight men in there, all chosen because of a physical similarity to yourself. Now you can choose to stand anywhere between them, anywhere in the line. You’ll see there are numbers on cards placed on the floor at intervals, one for each of you. When the witness comes in, they’ll be asked to identify the person they saw previously if possible and to do so by the number in question.”

Sheppard’s eyes were moving everywhere, never settling on Resnick’s face.

“Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Since you’re not having anyone present, a photograph will be taken of the parade before the witness comes in. A copy of that will be made available to yourself or your solicitor if it becomes necessary.”

Resnick stepped back, leaving Patel to take Sheppard inside. He found Vivien Nathanson in close discussion with Lynn Kellogg and whatever it was they were talking about cut off as soon as Resnick approached.

“I have to tell you,” Resnick said to Vivien, heading back towards the room, “the person you saw may or may not be in this parade. If you can’t make a positive identification that’s fine, you just have to say so. If you do recognize anyone, the way to indicate that is by referring to their number.”

“They have numbers?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Round their necks?”

“In front of them. Where they stand.”

A moment later they were inside the room. Stephen Sheppard had chosen to stand third in line. Five of the others had been persuaded in off the streets to perform their civic duty, the remainder were uniformed men who’d changed back into their street clothes.

“Take your time,” Resnick said. “Walk along the line at least twice and then, if you can, if you’re quite certain, I want you to indicate whether the person you saw running across the crescent on Sunday afternoon last is in this room.”

Vivien Nathanson had thought it was going to be easy; she hadn’t imagined herself as being under any pressure. After all, she was just the witness; she was the one who had come forward, conscientious, anxious to help. Why then, as she looked along the line of men, did her mouth feel suddenly dry, the muscles of her stomach wall begin to tighten and contract?